


Brave New World

by atomicsupervillainess



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: (somewhat questionable science), And science!, Angst, Based on a Tumblr Post, Canon Divergent, Discussion of Rape, F/M, Fitz will be in a Kilt, Future Fic, I did my marvel comics research, Marvel comics compliant, Mid-Season 2, Outlander AU, Simmons will be in a corset, Suddenly the story got even more heart-wrenching, This time travel-verse is going to be a monster, Time Travel AU, What Have I Done, discussion of torture and abuse, in the past, recovering together, so now suggestions of sexual violence, talk of "real" shield, there will be highlanders, trauma/recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-24 20:59:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3784135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atomicsupervillainess/pseuds/atomicsupervillainess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s harrowing reconstruction, HYDRA's new leaders are rearing their heads, searching for an important alien artifact in the highlands of Scotland. With scant time and the fault-lines clear within a team just starting to reconstruct itself, Coulson leads them on a new mission, one which could change the course of history for Jemma Simmons and Leo Fitz, forever.</p><p>"Sing me a song of a lass that is gone/ Say, could that lass be I?/ Merry of soul she sailed on a day/Over the sea to Skye.<br/>Billow and breeze, islands and seas/ Mountains of rain and sun/ All that was good, all that was fair/ All that was me is gone."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's not an Einstein-Rosen Bridge

**Author's Note:**

> FInally, another fic! I'm kind of a research nut, so depending on how in depth and nerdy I feel like getting, you may or may not have citations in the end notes on this fic. When I was researching how to make time-travel work within the Marvel Universe, I came across some pretty interesting stuff, which I could actually use to make a whole series of time-travel fics! 
> 
> There will be at least one more, set during Peggy Carter's era, at a later date. But for now, please enjoy this, my first AU fic! There's a lot of set-up in this initial chapter, just to make the context appropriate, but I swear, there will be Fitz in a kilt, Simmons in a corset (and stays!), and some sexy, sexy times coming your way!

 

* * *

 

The quinjet dipped low into the glade as Skye craned her head to see out the tiny window beside her.

The hills and mountains were like faded jeans, all hazy blues and greys creasing up the horizon line. Trees broke into her field of vision – thickly green in the last flush of summer. “Man, it’s pretty. I can’t believe you grew up around here, Fitz.”

“That’s because I didn’t,” Fitz said, unbuckling himself and moving to stand. “City boy, me – from Glasgow. This is Inverness – or near enough.”

He sidestepped Jemma, his eyes lingering a second too long on the fan of her eyelashes against her cheek. She’d briefly flicked her eyes closed on the last bump of the landing. It was just a moment – just a second, really, but then they were open again, and there she was, staring straight at him, her breath hitching slightly in her chest, as the hatch dropped, unsettling his feet.

Fitz stumbled forward a little, his eyes wrenched from hers, hands going out to grapple with the equipment crates.

“Careful, Fitz,” Jemma’s voice was soft as she sprung forward to steady him. The side of her pinky skimmed against his thumb, her hand coming to rest on the crate strap just above his, just barely touching, sharing heat.

With a start, he dragged the crate out from under them, casting a glance at the others – Coulson and Hunter, heads together over a tablet, May pushing Ward out from the cockpit, Skye looking at the both of them, her head tilted, inquisitive – and then he swung the crate up onto his shoulder, “I’ve got it Simmons. You don’t have to worry.”

“But your shoulder – you could re-injure it,” She pleaded, her hands hanging in the dead space between them.

“Yeah, well, it’s fine, it’s just a crate. Same crate I’ve been lugging around for years.” He hadn’t meant to use that tone. Hadn’t meant to strike out, to sound so poisonous. After everything with Gonzales and Weaver, things had settled uneasy between them. Fitz flicked his gaze to her face, her eyebrows peaked in concern.

 Fitz reached out his free hand, gently grasping her wrist, his fingers pressing into the softness of her palm. “I’m fine Jemma, I promise.”

Skye cleared her throat, gesturing imperceptibly towards Coulson, who was striding over to the field vehicles. Fitz dropped her wrist and took a step away, toward the trunk.

“Fitzsimmons, any idea what we’re dealing with?” He asked.

“The readings are too faint to be an Einstein-Rosen Bridge,” Jemma said, thrusting her tablet towards Fitz. He stowed the crate, and glanced quickly down at the screen.

“- But the signature’s alien, at least –“

“Asgardian possibly, but –“

“Not quite what we’ve – “

“Come to think of it, it’s less like a bridge, and more like –“

“A pulse –“

“A pulsar.”

“But that’s impossible.” They both said.

Skye slumped against the hood of the SUV. “Could it be Kree? Please just tell me it isn’t Kree…”

Fitz shrugged. Simmons shook her head, “It doesn’t read like the Diviner at all, nor the City, but we just don’t know enough yet. Sorry Skye.”

“Alright, so you’re telling me that we have no idea what the deal is with this thing?” Coulson asked, shucking his sunglasses.

**_“Just that Hydra wants it, and they want it bad. They know more than we do at this point – S.H.I.E.L.D.’s pretty in the dark here.”_** Kara’s voice sounded from their comms, and May nodded.

“Kara’s right. Whatever it is, we need to identify it, assess it, and deal with it,” She added.

“-And fast. It won’t take Hydra long to realize that they’re being played,” Ward interjected.

“ _You’d know all about that_ ,” Simmons muttered under her breath, shouldering past him to climb into the backseat beside Fitz.

“We need to take precautions though,” Coulson said from the front seat, ignoring the muttered comment, and passed back an old SSR folder. “There’s been strange activity recorded around here for at least a century. The SSR had their suspicions about this place, but they didn’t have the technology or the knowledge we do.”

* * *

 

“You must be the Family Coulson,” Said the front desk clerk. She was a jovial, rotund little thing, barely 5’, wearing an old paisley dress and a pile of necklaces.

The B&B they were staying at, Fog Cottage, was just on the outskirts of Inverness, barely a ten minute drive from the source of the pulse readings. She was the owner, caretaker, cook, and chambermaid, all rolled into one, and when her cheerful inquisition began, it didn’t stop.

“You’re a diverse lot, aren’t you?” She asked, taking in the agents streaming in towards the desk.

Coulson put a lazy arm around Agent May’s shoulder, nuzzling her hair lovingly. “Well, we weren’t sure we could even have kids for while, so we adopted our first.”

Bobbi, with Lance’s arm around her waist, waved and gave a happy smile.

“- We were convinced he was shooting blanks,” May deadpanned.

Coulson dropped his hand and picked up a suitcase. “-But then our miracle baby happened,” He gestured to Skye.

“Aww, dad, I told you I hate it when you call me that,” Skye gave Coulson a light shove, her voice laced with genuine affection as he dropped a brief and doting kiss to the top of her head.

“Ahh, loving families. It’s so nice to see. These days, folks are galavanting all over, so spread out, hardly any time to call their old mum. So what brings you all out here?” The hostess called back behind her, leading them all up the stairs.

“Wedding planning,” Hunter chimed in as they rounded a corner to a private common room. It was well appointed with staid, overstuffed furniture. “My girl and I, finally tying the knot – and my little sis here,” Hunter pointed to Jemma and Fitz, “We’re thinking a double wedding. Figured it was good enough for a bit of a family reunion.”

“And Mom and Dad have never been to the UK,” Bobbi added, “so it’s kind of a vacation too.”

“Ah! Weddings, how lovely. Well, lots to plan, lots to plan. I remember back at my own wedding, nigh on sixty years ago, now! Well no one had much in those days, but Robbie, my husband, he says to me, he says ‘now Davina,’ – “

When Davina had stowed all of their luggage, poured them all drinks, informed them of the local walking tours happening that weekend, and proceeded to tell them all about her own wedding day, the pitfalls and benefits of a highland wedding, and some lovely local churches they could be married within, she finally allowed herself to be ushered out of the room.

“What I wouldn’t give for a motel 6 and one of those ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ clerks,” May muttered, massaging her jaw. “My mouth hurts from smiling so much,” May shut the door and motioned to Coulson to begin laying out the next day’s plan.

Once mission talk was completed and files stowed, Hunter pulled out a flask and took a long draught. “Mate, you got history ‘round here?” He asked Fitz, who was fiddling with one of the D.W.A.R.F.S – recalibrating the sensors for a more precise read tomorrow.

Fitz popped his head up, blinking – suddenly aware of the conversation going on around him. “Um, what?”

“History? You know, clansmen in the bloodlines, claymores and Bonny Prince Charlie?”

“On my mum’s side – my da’s side was lowlands, mostly, I think.”

Ward was sidling around the perimeter of the room, nursing a glass of dark liquor. His eyes lit on Fitz and Hunter’s conversation, and he interjected quickly, “One of my ancestors made a name for himself around here – Black Jack Ward. Captain of Dragoons.”

Jemma was silent, sitting across the room at a table, riveted. Her whole body was thrumming with energy. No matter how much he had done, or how he had professed to have changed, she didn’t trust him. Couldn’t. Not after what he’d done to them, not after all Fitz had struggled. Without a thought, just the blood rushing in her ears, she strode over, purposefully standing between Fitz and Ward, on the pretext of handing Fitz tools.

Ward chuckled into his drink, eyeing Jemma’s movements, and perched on the side of Hunter’s arm chair. “I guess he terrorized the local countryside back in the day,”

The shadows from the fireplace racked discordantly against Ward’s handsome features as he smiled, darkening his eyes even further. Unbeknownst to her, Jemma’s grip tightened on the tiny screwdriver in her hand, clenching harder as Fitz tried to take it from her.

“Jemma…” His voice was hardly above a whisper, startling her enough to release it. It fell between them with a loud clatter onto the stone floor.

Ward quirked a small, knowing smile, and stood, walking away. _Damage done_ , Jemma thought, cursing her lack of control. Coulson glanced up at her, concerned, from where he stood with May. Jemma forced a quick smile, and squeezed her hand into a fist, to keep it from shaking as the adrenaline dissipated.

She needed to stop reacting like this. Out of habit, she brought her hands up and clutched at the back of her neck, turning about the room. Skye had already turned in for the night, Bobbi had gone to shower. Coulson looked like he was heading off himself. It wouldn’t look completely out of place to excuse herself. “I’ll just – “

She gestured with her thumb out the door. Fitz looked up from where he sat, seeing her hand at her neck, a nervous tick she’d never been able to shake, and hurriedly stashed his tools. “Wait a sec, Simmons,” He placed the re-calibrated D.W.A.R.F. back into its crate, and flipped the latch. “Grab the toolbox?” He asked.

She nodded, her movements distracted as she made for the exit. It was late, and the hallway was dark. At the door to her suite, Simmons handed him the toolbox, and said, “Thanks for walking me,”

“It’s the least I could do.” He set the D.W.A.R.F.s and the toolbox down, and stepped closer, his eyes downcast – it was too hard to get the words out and look at her big, dark eyes at the same time. “With Weaver and Gonzales and everything. I know you did more than what you said. I know you’re the reason Bobbi and Mack came back. You can tell –“

“- _Don’t_ Fitz, don’t ask. _Please_.” She squeezed her eyes shut, her nails digging into the flesh of his forearms. It was over in a second, and she dropped her hands, turning half away from him, fumbling with the key in the lock.

He sighed, wanting so desperately to gather her up, to bury his face in her hair, and tell her it was over. Tell her they’d won. Tell her that it was okay now. He was okay. She was okay. But were they?

Jemma felt the moist heat of his sigh against the side of her neck, and it stilled her rapid, nervous hands. She wished she could sink back against him. Like she used to do. Before everything happened to sever them.

His fingertips ghosted along the sheer sleeve of her blouse, and he moved just incrementally closer. She sighed, her forehead pressing against the door.

“It’s going to be okay, Jem. Ward – “

“Its late,” She interrupted, turning the key and the handle decisively, escaping to the darkness of her room, leaving him standing against the void of her space, not daring to turn back. She’d held it inside so long, she was afraid of what would happen if she ever let it out – what would be left of her, after all of it spilled out the cracks.

Ward wasn’t the problem, Jemma knew. He was just there. The tangible thing – the thing shaped like betrayal, the thing that reminded her of it all – he was where it had started, for them – her and Fitz. She was where it had ended. But telling him – any of it, about Weaver, about how she’d let ( _encouraged_ ) Calderon in vault D, how she’d cut the feed, looped the footage, and felt justified in keeping Bobbi away – Jemma squeezed her eyes shut, pressed her nails into her palms, deep and cutting, and forced herself to breathe searing breaths into her lungs.

* * *

 

“It’s like she doesn’t think I can handle it,” Fitz muttered over his eggs the next morning. “Is that why she sent me away, d’you think? With the toolbox?”

Hunter raised his eyebrows and shook his head sympathetically. “She thinks the world of you, mate. She sent you because she trusted you, and she believed in you. Don’t be too hard on the li’l bird.”

“Bobbi ever say anything?”

Hunter shrugged and shook his head no. “Just smatterings. It wasn’t good. Not from what little she let drop. But she’s like a vault, that one. She made Simmons a promise, and she won’t break it. She betrayed her trust once. She won’t do it again.”

“I just wish she’d talk to me. I know she’s –“ _hurting. In pain. Angry. Scared, all the time._ “She can’t do it all on her own.”

Hunter shoved the last slice of buttered toast in his maw and shrugged. “People deal how they deal, Fitz. Give her time. Just be there. Don’t push. She’ll come around.”

“Don’t push,” Fitz murmured to himself as he stared out the window, watching her smile brightly at Skye, who helped her haul a crate into the trunk.

He didn’t push when they started unloading. He gave her space when they released the D.W.A.R.F.s, talking about the likelihood of harnessing pulsar-like magnetic fields, instead of her continued aversion to Ward, or the way she shut down whenever anyone asked about Vault D.

He let her wander, watching the way the corners of her mouth quirked upwards, and her spirits lifted, as they came closer and closer to Craig Na Dun, the faerie stones of local legend. The sun dappled her brown hair, and her steps quickened, and Fitz hung back, watching the way she moved, curious and purposeful around a tall standing stone.

And then he heard her scream.

* * *

 

There was a clarity to the air up here, Jemma thought. The B&B was old and stuffy, and the smell of wood smoke had crowded so close to her last night, making it hard to breathe. But this morning, the world seemed clearer- brighter, somehow newer, than yesterday.

As she climbed the hillock towards Craig Na Dun, it seemed like the weariness that had coiled around her bones started to unravel. Fitz was chattering science beside her, the D.W.A.R.F.s were zooming about their heads and along the paths, sending bio-scans, magnetic fluctuation readings, climate data – any and all things that they could possibly need, into her tablet – her mind buzzing through a million questions, her synapses firing like lightning bugs in June.

Things felt right, here. With Fitz at her side, curious, unknown mysteries in front of her, science leading her forward. The sun warmed her back, and she felt her lips curl into a genuine smile. She was doing more of that recently – the smiling, the real kind, now that he was back, and things were the way they were supposed to be.

She ran her hands against the rock, following Sleepy towards a strange, subtle buzzing, whooshing sound. He’d picked up on it, and she’d patched the sound feed through her comm, so she could hear it better.

If she didn’t know better, she’d swear it sounded like a T.A.R.D.I.S...

But that was impossible.

She bent down to the base of the center stone, and started pulling at weeds along the base. Using a small trowel, she dug down, deeper, and deeper, until the sound became clearer – almost like a tuning fork. “Well hello, you,” She murmured, taking in a series of whorls and holes – they looked Neolithic almost, but the degree of the cut, “Too precise,”

She hadn’t noticed that her glove had been pierced by the trowel, not until her palm brushed against the pattern, and a low, barely there light began to pulse, brighter and brighter. “Oh no,”

“ _FFFIIIIIIiiiitttzzzz!_ ”

* * *

 

 One moment she was there, and then next, gone – “JEMMA!” He cried wildly, reaching for where she’d been but a second ago, falling heavily against the stone, his cheek sliding against a series of whorls and holes.

Something buzzed in his ear, but he couldn’t hear it over the sounds of his screams. “Turn the damn flashlights off!” He shouted, and then stopped, suddenly realizing, as his stomach flipflopped and his bones shifted and the world _moved_ , that it wasn’t flashlights, and what they’d discovered was not an Einstein-Rosen Bridge, but something else.

And that was when he felt the sudden burning sting of a gunshot, glancing against the curve of his back, sending him scurrying from his perch.

 


	2. Honey, I Lost the Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After reading through this today, I realized I probably should have edited this chapter a sight more than I did initially. So here it is, fully edited, with some minor changes for characterization, plotting, and flow. Sorry for the lack of it earlier, I was just too excited! I promise to be better!
> 
> Also please note: There is discussion of rape and sexual violence in this chapter.

* * *

* * *

 

 

She’d awoken to the sun pressing against her face, the heat of the day already blossoming against the window.

The white sundress had seemed appropriate, paired with a light cardigan and flats. It was a beautiful day, and she wasn’t the only one taking advantage of the weather – Skye was in a dress as well, and Bobbi in cut-offs. It helped that they were under-cover, and casual family-outing attire was expected. Her outfit had seemed immanently sensible at the time, but it did not seem so, now.

Jemma skidded roughly around a thick oak, her flats slipping against sodden leaves as she fell, scraping her arm against the underbrush. Shots cracked in the air around her, as she struggled to lay flat against a tangled cluster of young rowan, trying desperately to get her bearings in the midst of the sudden fire-fight.

 _Hydra_? It couldn’t be – They still had days – a week at least, unless Ward had tricked them, again. The sounds were wrong too – too explosive, not contained enough, as if the make and model of the guns were archaic, and Jemma knew from her time at Hydra that they only suffered the best.

The smell – there was something there too – the wrongness of it stood out. The air stank of shot, like sulfur and metal, like some sort of re-enactment, maybe?

She lifted her head, trying to get a better look around her, when, through the hedge, an arm shot out, grabbing at her cardigan sleeve. Jemma cried out, twisting the sweater from her arms as she fell, clawing at the wet earth, struggling upright.

He was wearing a red coat. Like an old British Army officer. _This can’t be real_ , Jemma kept thinking, over and over, as she dashed mindlessly through the trees and trails, trying to evade what appeared to be the British Army of the Victorian era, clashing against what she could only describe as highland clansmen – a flash of metal slipped out in front, and she screeched, pivoting on her heel in the way May had taught her, dropping low and diving towards a break in the trees, only the hem of the clansman’s kilt catching her as he reached – missing her by millimeters. A sudden, hopeful thought came into her head, and she blurted it out without thinking, “The Doctor,”

She tumbled, covered in dirt, down the steep side of a hill, landing hard on wet rock below. Somehow, she’d managed to fall into a tiny river cove, an apparently unpopulated, pebble shore in the midst of a pitched battle.

Footsteps crunched toward her. Jemma marshalled her strength, and flipped onto her side. “God, I hope it’s the Doctor,” She breathed harshly, her hand coming up to cradle her ribs as she cast her gaze about her.

“Agent Ward?”

* * *

 

Fitz grimaced as the pain blossomed. He could feel his blood run hot in tiny streams down his back, pin-pricking memories of when Calderon had found him. It’d been knives then, not guns, at least. Nothing lethal. And it hadn’t been very long at all until Simmons had caught up with them, and shot Calderon point blank through the temple, spraying blood and misting pink everywhere.

The look on Jemma’s face – God, he’d never forget.

A high, quick cry sounded deeper in the woods, “JEMMA!” He bellowed, his wound forgotten as he threw himself down the rocky ledge, his finger nails digging into bark and moss as he slid down the steep pitch of hill.

He caught figures in the trees as he tried to zero in on the sound of her voice. Figures in obvious, bloody red. _Definitely not Hydra then_.

Whatever he could say about Hydra, they weren’t idiots. They’d be camouflaged, or at least in dark tac-gear. Not that kind of frippery.

 _A movie shoot_? He thought blindly, shooting left towards another feminine scream, crying out as another shot pierced his flesh – his shoulder, still healing from where Calderon had dug the knife in. “Shite! JEMMA!” He screamed, grabbing at the wound as he stumbled, wild-eyed, now desperate to find her. No movie shoot would use live rounds. No modern army would wear bright red coats. No clansmen these days would be fighting with Dirks and broadswords.

They’d travelled through time, somehow.

He skittered at the edge of short cliff, a jutting bank against a river, wind-milling for balance as his eyes sighted what he’d been searching for.

She was clutching her ribs, her dress stained and streaked with grass and mud, her face eerily blank as she backed up, imperceptibly, against the tall river bank. Coming towards her, his gait measured and slow, was a tall man in a red coat, with dark, close cropped hair, and a knife in his hands.

* * *

 

“I believe you mean Captain, my –“ The man who was not Grant Ward paused in his approach, using his knife to flick a bit of ruined lace off of what used to be her sleeve, “-lady…” He let the question hang in the air.

He raked his eyes from her tattered sleeve down the neck of her bodice, and against her ruined skirt. His mouth snaked into a slow, suggestive grin as he took in her bare calves, her one shoe. He trailed the knife softly against the line of her body, just the tip, just a hint of violence in his eyes. “Now, what on earth is an English lady doing in nothing but her shift, out on the Scottish Highlands?”

Jemma flicked her eyes this way and that, wishing for the gun she’d stowed in her purse. Or the one she’d stashed in the equipment case. Anything.

Her fingers closed around a rock, stuck into the earthen shore. Using her nails, she began to dig at it. _Time-travel_. That much was clear _. Mid-18 th century, Scotland, Answered to Ward. Captain of Dragoons_. If she could just stall him long enough to loosen the rock, she might be able to make a break for it.

“-Captain? Oh Captain – I was so hoping to find you! You see, I was set upon by...Highway men – ruffians. They stole my things – I just barely escaped! I’ve heard you command the British garrison in these parts, and I’m desperate to get to back to my family, oh please, you must help,” Jemma gulped, trying to ignore the sharp pain in her ribs when she breathed. Trying to ignore way the tip of the knife dug into the sensitive flesh at the underside of her breast.

An appeal to his gentlemanly nature, his British sensibility, his responsibility for his fellow countrymen, it should be enough to put him off whatever untoward train of thought he had, at least, until she could loose the rock.

* * *

 

Fitz’s heart drummed against his chest as he cast around for a way towards the cove, a path, a clear drop, anything, while trying to keep Jemma in his line of sight.

“ _Shite_ ,” He breathed, scrambling down a scree of rocks, his bleeding shoulder jarring through the movements, “ _I’m coming Jem. Just – be safe, god, please be safe_ ,” He pleaded under his breath.

The bastard redcoat had her pushed hard up against the side of the shore, his knife-tip toying at her breast, his grin lascivious. His back was to Fitz as he lifted the knife to Jemma’s throat, and pressed his body against hers. Fitz’s hands found a knocked over sapling, thick and sturdy, and he quietly picked it up from the river’s edge, trying not to draw attention.

“I don’t think that’s it at all. Or, at least, I don’t think you… _escaped_. Some other man’s already had you, judging by your state of undress. Maybe not a whore – you don’t have the look of a woman that rouges her nipples, but, just as well – had by one, might as well another, aye? And then, perhaps, we can see to your family, Mistress – “

Fitz swung as hard as he could, the sapling connecting with the red coat’s side with a thick snap, breaking ribs as he crumpled. “Run Jemma!”

The redcoat clamped his hand around her forearm as he fell, his grip like a vice. Screaming, she hauled the rock from the earthen wall and bashed it against his wrist. She spun, her hand seeking Fitz’s, as they tore out of the cove, hauling themselves up the steep sides.

“Jemma, _mother of all things_ , I thought I’d lost you,” Fitz cried, pulling her tight to his bloody chest.

Nary a moment passed before another set of hands clamped down on Jemma’s arms, hauling her and Fitz down to the forest floor. “Ge’ down wi’ ye!” The highlander hissed, pushing them both to the ground. Jemma began to scream, and the man pistol-whipped her, knocking her out cold. Fitz reared up to grapple with him –

“There be redcoats abou’ laddie! Ye wandered inna righ’ mess – do as I bid, and ye an’ the lass’ll ge’ to safety soon enou’.”

* * *

 

Jemma came-to in the bow of Fitz’s uninjured arm, her face pressed against his chest, and her head aching to bloody high heaven.

They’d escaped to a small croft, free from the pursuit of the redcoats, surrounded by a band of unwashed, reeking clansmen, who eyed them warily. Jemma cast her eyes to Fitz’s, and knew without speaking, to shed her accent, when she asked, “Where are we? What’s happened?”

Fitz’s shoulders visibly dropped in relief. She’d been around him long enough to perfect his Glaswegian brogue, mimicking it well enough to pass for a scot.

“The lass stirs,” Said one, tall, bearded, and bald. “Now be the time to attend to some questions, I think, you two.”

“Who be you, and how came ye to happen upon us?”

Fitz recited the lie Simmons had fed the redcoat earlier. It was enough to pass for truth. “They grabbed Jemma and we ran, trying to escape to the nearest village, but then the redcoat –“

“Black Jack Ward,” The one who had rescued them, noted, pulling his tam off his head and scrubbing at his beard with it, wearily.

“-Black Jack Ward,” Fitz amended, “He grabbed her, and –“

“Would have raped me if –“

“I hit him with a branch and –“

“We ran – “

The bald one, clearly in command of the party of clansmen, held up his hand for silence. “Ye talk like a waterfall full o’ echoes, the two o’ ye. What’re yer names?”

“Fitz-“

“-Simmons,”

“Fitzsimmons –  Siblings, aye?”

Fitz and Simmons looked at each other, gulped, and nodded. They both understood the dangers of a woman travelling unaccompanied at the time. Simmons never wore any rings, so no one would assume she was married, which meant, should she be found to be travelling with a man who wasn’t kin, she’d be taken for some sort of trollop, and would probably suffer worse than attempted rape for it.

They nodded again, decidedly.

“And yer not from these parts at all. Lowlanders, what by the grace o’ god, has you turnin’ tail for the highlands?”

“-Its not the highlands,” Simmons declared. She shifted to standing and hauled Fitz with her, pulling out the wadded up shirt that covered his bullet hole. “This’ll need to be seen to,” she muttered.

She turned again to the commander, “It’s not the highlands we were journeying to – it was…France,” She cast about. Saying they were heading to France should take them back to Inverness, a well-known harbour town of the age, and be enough to shake them off their lie – a couple of idiot children, seeking passage to brighter shores. It made sense, didn’t it?

Fitz took up the line where she’d dropped it, and carried on. “Our mum’s died, so there’s naught tying us here. Tryin’ to get to our Uncle’s – a shipwright in –“

“Compien,” Jemma supplied, carefully prodding at the bullet hole. Fitz grimaced and sucked in a breath.

“It hurts when you press, Jem,” He whined.

Simmons rolled her eyes, “Yes, I know _Leo_ , there’s a bullet lodged there. I don’t exactly have the right equipment to locate its position _without_ pressing,”

One of the clansman guffawed. “That li’l kitten’s got some claws on ‘er, aye brother? She boss you around from the womb, I take it?”

Fitz cast a temperamental glare over at the man.

“My sister talked to me like that, she’d be tastin’ the back o’ my hand,”

“Shut up, Angus – yer sister’d flatten you with her giant arse. We all know how she rules that roost,” Said the one with the tam.

“It’s going to need to come out,” She murmured, casting her eyes about for anything that resembled medical supplies. The crofter’s cabin was woefully undersupplied, from what she could tell. Suddenly, her eyes lit upon an older man holding another man down, grasping his upper arm –

“Stop, by god! Stop, or you’ll tear the tendons!” She shrieked, tearing over to the man and knocking him out of the way.

“So, Leo,” Said the commander to Fitz, who winced again to be called by his given name.

“Just Fitz, please. Fitz’ll do. Everyone calls me it – Even S-Jemma. My sister,” He gestured to where she was ordering the hulking clansman about, readying to pop a dislocated shoulder back into place.

The commander nodded, and stroked his beard thoughtfully. “So… Fitz. Why should I believe you?”

He sauntered closer. Fitz, who normally considered himself a rather smallish-sort, sitting around 5’7, was at this age, of a height to be considered tall. This clansman loomed over him. At least 6’ – something of a giant in the era, Fitz thought.

The man clearly meant to intimidate him, press upon him his greater size and strength – but he didn’t know that Fitz had been loomed over by men taller than him most of his life, and he’d learned not to back down. “You and your…sister – it’s a mite suspicious. You in your shirt-tails and trews, she in nothing but her shift. Lowlanders, coming up to the highlands to take passage to France, when you could ha’ done at least two other ports in the region?”

“Passage is cheaper through Inverness,” Simmons called across the room, wiping her hands on a rag as she pointed to the pot over the hearth fire. “Toss the rags in to boil, Murtagh – trust me. I’ve done this before.”

The commander rested a heavy hand on FItz's injured shoulder, digging his thumb slowly into Fitz's bullet hole, making the younger man wince.He grew pale as the pressure increased steadily, trying to hold in the cry. "You know wha' I think, lad?" The man whispered, leaning in close to his ear, "I think I haven't ever spied a man look at his sister the way you look at tha' lass, and if'n I did, I'd send him to a priest righ' quick." Fitz, studiously stared at his feet, fighting to keep his eyes from Jemma.

The highlander continued, "No, I think she's a woman of...loose morals, an' ye were caught between her thighs by the bandits. Mebbe yer tryin' a make up fer stealin' a pretty thing like tha' from the bosom o' her family and ruinin' her reputation by claimin' kinship, or mebbe no'. But I wan' ye to know, I'm watchin'."

Murtagh, the one with the tam, who had rescued them both in the woods, quirked an inquisitive eyebrow, but said nothing.

“Fitz, your turn. Come closer to the fire so I can see what I’m doing,” She ordered.

Fitz wrenched away from the commander's grasp.

“Why’s passage cheaper through Inverness, Fitz?” The man called after him.

“-Because one of the Merchant vessel’s owner's owes our uncle a favour, that’s why,” He said with growl, moving to stand close to Jemma.

“-Leave off Dougal, they made short work of tha’ damnable Black Jack Ward at any rate, an’ tha’ alone deserves some respect – or at least an evening off from the inquisition, wouldn’t you say?” Said the man with the recently relocated shoulder.

“Leave it to Himself to deal with anyways. The Laird’ll ken wha’ to do wi’ them soon enou’,” Murtagh agreed, handing the lady the bottle of whisky she was gesturing for.

“Just warn me before you do it,” Fitz said through gritted teeth, clamping his eyes shut. He heard nothing – and opened his eyes a slit, catching Jemma gulping down the searing alcohol. She coughed and sputtered for a moment before nodding.

“Ready?”

“Ready,” He answered, hissing as the alcohol burned at the edges of his wound.

Wrapping an edge of tartan around the knife blade she’d boiled, she quickly pulled it from the scalding water, using two fingers to press along his collarbone, locating the stray shot. Her brows were drawn together, and her voice was determined and professional when she said, “If we’re lucky, it’s all in one piece, and it’ll be a quick in and out,”

“-Tha’s wha’ she said, aye?!” Angus split into laughter.

“-Probably, but certainly not to you and bloody wee tiny prick,” Jemma seethed, stopping him short.

“Yer sister’s got a mouth like a guttersnipe on ‘er,”

Fitz held his tongue, desperately trying not to cry out as the blade tipped along his tendons, digging for the bullet, scrapping it against the bone. With a tiny suctioning noise, and a sharp intake of breath, it popped out of the bullet hole, and into Jemma’s outstretched palm, whole and in one piece. “There, you did it, Fitz,” She said, blinking up at him. 

She patted him softly on the cheek. “Now we just need to clean it again, and sew it up.”

Jemma cut the last stitch with her teeth. Neither of them were particularly aware of the way Angus and Dougal were watching the firelight shine through Jemma's sundress, sillouetting her figure against the flames.

“-You sure she’s not a whore?” Angus whispered harshly to Dougal.

“Canna’ be sure o’ anything, mind, but perhaps she could be persuaded,” He muttered back, fingering the money-pouch in his sporran, “Or at least that brother o’ hers migh’ be…for the righ’ price. Especially if he's no' kin, as he claims. Money's a fine motivator. An' their reaction will be tellin' enough. Somethin' about them's no' righ'.” 

Dougal waited until Fitz and Jemma had seperated, Fitz to dab at his wound and re-button his ruined shirt, and Jemma, threading the needle to sew up another clansman's cuts. The older man pushed Angus towards Fitz, and stepped closer towards Jemma, readying to make the same offer.

Fitz busied himself with buttoning up his shirt over his wound, wincing at every pull of his shoulder, when Angus came up to him, tossing a few coins into the air. “What’d ye say We sample yer sister a bit? – she’s probably already been sullied by highway men as it is, and we pay ye a fair price?”

There was a clatter over his shoulder and Fitz pivoted to see Jemma moving steadily backwards into the edge of the hearth, her hands grasping for the poker, as Dougal grew closer, hand outstretched, gold in his palm.

Fitz shot forward. He pushed his way through a knot of clansmen, managing to steal a dirk from an unprotected belt, and slammed into Dougal, shunting the older man against a shelf, and toppling a chair.

He spun, brandishing the knife out, Jemma pressed up against his back, her hands tremoring where she clutched at him, barely breathing, holding her breath in anticipation. “If you touch a hair on her head!” He bellowed, “ _BY GOD_ , you’ll pay,” The volume of his voice dropped to threatening violence, just seething above a whisper.

“I though’ ye dinna’ hold wi’ rape, Dougal,” Murtagh declared, stepping forward to protect Jemma. Another closed ranks with Fitz. “Good man, Rupert,” Murtagh said with a gruff pride.

“I wouldna allow ye to besmirch the pride and dignity o’ clan MacKenzie, e’en y’are War Chief, Dougal.” Rupert said, quietly.

“I would ha’ paid for it, rightly. It would ha' been a fair transaction,” Dougal huffed. “The highwaymen –“

“Took my dress, but they did not take me. And nor shall you, for my life, I swear it,” Jemma spat.

Angus held up his hands in mock surrender. Dougal sheathed his dirk, shrugged his shoulders, and sighed. “Well, nothing ventured…Alrigh’. We’ll take ye to the MacKenzie himself. The Laird can decide what to make o’ ye.”

As the men backed away to a far corner, readying their packs, Angus leaned over and muttered, "Wha' d'ye ken from tha' reaction?"

"Wha' ever it is they may claim to be, the lass is no whore." _Siblings, however..._

 

* * *

 

“Phil,” May intoned quietly, staring through the tarpaulin containment as S.H.I.E.L.D. scientists scurried about, Bobbi marshalling their lab-coated forms.

“Honey,” Coulson began, his shoulders slumping and his mouth attempting to pull into a wry half-smile, “I lost the kids.”

“But at least you didn’t shrink them, eh, boss?” Hunter called, peeking his head around the tarp, shrugging into a bunnysuit.

May glared sternly at the former mercenary. “Shut-up, Hunter.”

Coulson shrugged his shoulders, and stuck his hands in his pockets. “I know. I know. You leave for one hour, and all hell breaks loose. On the plus side, no Hydra?”

“- ** _We think_** ,” Kara’s voice crackled over the comms.

“We think.” Coulson added.

May swept a disapproving gaze over him, from his shoes to his face, and shook her head, exasperated. “Every time.” She sighed, waving over Bobbi and Skye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the only chapter that has a distinct 'accent' written into it - I added it as a way of visually/vocally distinguishing Fitz's Glaswegian accent from the Highland brogue accent, but I (like many other readers, and writers, I'm assuming) have a hard time making it sound authentic, and now that the introduction's done, it's not really needed, so I'm thinking I'll probably drop it from here in the story.


	3. Castle Leoch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz and Jemma's injuries start to take their toll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear friends, this work got a lot darker this chapter than I had originally anticipated. Therefore, please be aware before you begin reading that there will be suggestions of torture and abuse. Please consider this a trigger-warning. 
> 
> But please note! There are sweet and intimate moments in this chapter! It's not all bad! And I made my roommate feel feelings reading this, so you know, please still read and comment!

* * *

 

The veil of night drew close as the sky deepened from blue to pin-pricked dark. Earth and sky melded, mountain and meadow just variations of shadow, dropping behind the steady drum of hooves.

For the first time in a long while, Jemma was thankful for her bourgeois upbringing – one that had included learning which forks belonged to which course, how to curtsey, and even how to ride horse-back, as she tugged at the reins, directing her mare into the traffic of beasts coursing through the trail.

Jemma bit back a whimper, her vision swimming. Each rhythmic footfall of the galloping horse beneath her sent fresh tears to her eyes, and new pain spearing through her left side. She gasped, a painful tremor shuddering through her as sharpness knifed through her ribs. She struggled to hold her torso high and steady against the pounding of the mare’s hooves.

Fitz could feel her back tense against him, the way her breath caught with every footfall. He grasped the reins in front of them, tightening around Jemma’s hand as her other slipped, quietly, around her waist.  Sensing her pain, he attempted to wrap his injured arm around her, to pull her closer and hold her steady.

He leaned heavily against her back, his good arm tightening around her like a buttress, his thighs pressed forward into the backs of hers. Fitz clenched his teeth against the deep ache that blossomed in his shoulder, and slid his palm against her abdomen, seeking where her hand was clutching tight to her ribs.

“Fitz,” Jemma breathed, her voice pinched with pain.

“You’ve got the horse, and I’ve got you,” He murmured against her ear, pressing his palm against her, like a brand. His hand was hot against the cold night and the clamminess of her skin. _Shock_. She thought numbly, noting how lightheaded she felt when his breath ghosted, warm and tingling, against her temple, The way her pulse sped as he pulled her tight against the breadth of his chest. _I’m going into shock_.

Jemma blinked rapidly, and winced against a particularly hard gallop. “But your wound!”

“It’s not so bad – I can hardly feel it.”

“Liar.” She said, letting her temple rest against the warmth of his cheek.

“Okay, so it hurts, but not nearly so bad as it did.” He admitted, biting the inside of his cheek as the horse’s gait shifted, fording a small creek.

“Once we slow down, it’s going to feel a lot worse, Fitz. I can’t let your stitches open up – the strain of holding my ribs steady –“

“Jemma,” Fitz bit, “Settle back and let me hold you. If the stitches open, we’ll deal with it.”

Behind them, Dougal leaned over his saddle towards Murtagh. “You ever hold your sister quite so close?”

Murtagh shook his head no. “But then, I never had any sisters.”

Dougal huffed and narrowed his eyes at the pair. “I don’t like it. Something’s not right. I can feel it. I don’t trust either of them. But particularly the lass – something funny about that woman. Be a harrowing ordeal for a fair creature – wouldn’t you think? Warrant some tears, for a frail wee thing like that, but no, eyes about, like a wolf in a trap – fair chance she’d bite. No, I have my suspicions.”

Murtagh nodded. The horses pitched down a steep hillside, and he clutched at the reins, leaning back hard in the saddle. When they reached the pass, the sky seeping with light at the silhouetted edge of the mountains, the dawn soaking the horizon, Murtagh continued to nod. He thought somberly before saying, “Aye – ye might be right.”

Murtagh hauled up on the reins of his gelding, slowing the horse to canter beside Dougal’s. “I can’t be sure – it being but a moment, but, I could have sworn I heard her talking to Black Jack Ward in an English accent. Called her an English lady, he did. Can’t make heads nor tails of it. She may have been putting it on for his benefit – sympathy, or the like – in hopes for aid,”

“Fat lot of good that’d get ye from Black Jack Ward. Son of a billy goat bitch, that.”

* * *

 

Jemma stumbled hard into Fitz as she swung down from the saddle. Her cheeks were pale and the colour drained from her face as the world spun around her.

“Up you go, Jem,”He said, hauling her to her feet. He held fast to her elbow, using what was left of his strength to keep the both of them upright.

“Auch! Rupert! Ye cannot stay free of filth for the life of me!” A round-faced, pudgy woman, pink cheeked and rosy-knuckled, cried out, nonetheless gathering the lumbering oaf into her fresh scrubbed paws. “Your long-suffering mother’d be ashamed – a grown man and ye cannot keep clear of the muck!”

“It’s not muck, its remnants of redcoats, Auntie!” Rupert twirled the heavy woman about as though she weighed no more than a feather. She giggled upon being set down, until her eyes dropped onto the two strangers, bedraggled and pale, in a scandalous state of undress.

“Rupert, dearie,” She began, patting at his arm and staring forward, “Who be these?”

“Auch, aye – near forgot in the moment,” He scrubbed a hand against his beard and gestured. “I’d like to introduce you to the siblings Fitzsimmons, Mistress Jemma and Master Leo. They’d been set upon by bandits, and then, wouldn’t you know it, stumbled straight into the skirmish.”

He blushed and trundled forward, gesturing sheepishly at Jemma, “And lucky for us too, since Mistress Fitzsimmons’ neat hand stitched a fair bit of bloody wound, she did. Not a tremble to them, either,” He added with aplomb, his gaze soft as it happened upon her.

“Did she now?” Rupert’s aunt asked, stepping forward and reaching out her arm for Jemma to lean on. “Are ye a beaton mistress?”

“A – a beaton?” Jemma blinked up, confused, looking to Fitz for help.

“A healer,” Rupert’s aunt supplied.

“Something like that, yes.”

Fitz followed Jemma and Rupert’s aunt, his hand light on Jemma’s arm as they entered the high stone walls of the Castle.

Suddenly remembering her etiquette, Rupert’s aunt cried, “Oh my!” and slapped at her apron, “Auch, where are my manners? Welcome to Castle Leoch, Clan Seat of the MacKenzies! I’m Mrs. Fitzgibbon, and I run the kitchens –“

“And the maids, and the manservants, and the scullery –“Angus interjected from behind.

“And the dining hall, and the men at arms,” Rupert added.

“And all of us, near enough,” Angus finished, with a wink in his tone.

“-the kitchens –“ She continued, “But I’ll see you poor folk settled right. You poor wee thing – you’re shivering!” Mrs. Fitzgibbon rubbed a strong hand against Jemma’s bare forearm, “We’ll set you in front of a fire with a nice warm tartan soon enough.”

She leaned over, taking in Fitz with an approving eye. “You’re brother’s so attentive, I’m sure we can find a room nearby,”

“No!” Jemma’s tone was insistent, remembering the way she’d been backed into a corner, “I mean, I’d prefer him nearer – something adjoining, or even the same room, in fact – it’d be less trouble,”

“All I need is a cot, or a trundle-bed, or even a thick-sort of rug would do very well, thank you – “ Fitz added, raising his eyebrows and widening his eyes, turning his expression as puppyish as possible – it had a high success rate, even against agent May. And nearly nothing budged that woman.

“Well…”

Rupert leaned down and whispered something in her ear, causing her cheeks to flush indignantly. “Well, right. Yes. We can rustle up a cot for a good man, a good brother – Aye, I’d just as soon get the butler to requisition an entire four-poster for ye.” She reached out and patted his cheek fondly.

Somehow, they crossed through the east wing and down a thin corridor. Tapestries hung on either side of the solid timber-frame door that Mrs. Fitzgibbon unlocked, keeping the draught that eddied about their feet from fair to middling. “Here y’are. I’ll have the chamber maids make ye up a cot, Master Fitzsimmons,”

“Just Fitz, please,” He asked, nodding at her. Before she scurried away, he called after, “If you’d be so kind, might you send them up with a basin of hot water and some clean bandages? My sister needs tending,”

“-And so do you…brother,” Jemma declared, gesturing to the trickle of blood that had soaked through his shirt. Again. “A clean needle and thread, also? And some Whisky? For the wound?”

Mrs. Fitzsimmons nodded her assent and waved, turning to leave in a whirlwind of activity. Angus and Rupert trailed after her like ducklings.

* * *

 

“Chronal displacement technology?” Jemma burst as soon as the chambermaids exited.

“-Housing dark matter?”

“-The magnetic fields of a pulsar alone –“

“-Blow the containment – “

“No earthly material –“

“- and to create a fixed point in the _past_ –“

“Circumventing non-linear –“

“- Radiation should be seeping –“

“-A black hole at _least_ –“

Jemma tried to lower herself onto a bench by the hearth, her breath sticking as her ribs hitched. Fitz continued, rubbing at his eyebrows, travelling absently to the medical supplies.

“It’s not of this earth, that’s clear. Safe to say this kind of technology is even beyond the Asgardians – though based on the initial readings we had, the physics are similar enough to the Einstein-Rosen bridge that I might be able to model some equations…” He trailed off whisky bottle in his hand and a roll of bandages under his arm. “…Simmons?”

She fought to keep the wince off her face. She’d dealt with worse, after all.

Leaping forward, Fitz caught her forearm, helping her ease down to the wooden seat. His eyes searched her face, brows pulling together in disapproval as he sought out signs of discomfort. Fitz kneeled to set down the whisky and bandages, sliding forward. He put a hand on her thigh to leverage closer, one hand coming up to brush her disheveled hair behind her ear as she inhaled shallowly.

“You should have said,” He chastised, his hand drifting slowly down, fingertips grazing the shell of her ear.

The corner of her mouth pulled into a sardonic half-smile.

“Right. _Right_.” Fitz dropped his hand and leaned back on his heels. “Jemma Simmons, making a peep – there’s a thought. Stiff upper lip, right? _Right_.”

He said it with a hardness to his tone, moving to stand. Looking away from her, he tipped the lip of the whisky bottle to his mouth, washing back the harsh, scornful words on his tongue.

“Fitz…”

“-What Jemma?” He barked, spinning around. “You can’t expect me to believe that it doesn’t hurt! That you’re _fine_. You haven’t been fine since –“

“It’s a bio-triggered mechanism!” She exclaimed, cutting him off, thankfully, before he could finish. She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t sure she would ever be. He’d be so disappointed.

“Bio-triggered?”

“-My glove was punctured. As soon as I touched it, it activated.”

“I fell against it,” He corked the bottle and strode closer. “But what in our biology triggered it? It hasn’t exactly been transporting every tourist that touched it.”

“But if the talk was true, it’s transported enough,” Jemma, foolishly, attempted to shrug – instantly regretting the decision as a small gasp of pain escaped.

“Shite, Jemma!” Fitz growled, surging forward. “Stop distracting me with science!” He slid onto the bench beside her.

“Fitz, I can handle this –“

“I’ll not hear another word,”

She sighed and grumbled, but followed the direction of his hands as he helped her shift on the bench. His palm pressed gently but firmly against her back, travelling to support her side, trailing heat. From behind her, his other hand caught against the fabric of her long dress, his finger-tips inching it slowly, carefully, up her calf and over her knee as she moved to straddle the bench and face away from him.

Her breath shuddered as his hand shifted, bunching the material. The pads of his fingers were feather-light against the skin of her thigh as he hitched her skirt higher than he necessarily needed to. “…Does this hurt?” He murmured, wishing he could dip his head down, brush his lips against the crown of her spine.

“…nn-no,” She breathed, her hands flitting up to her neck.  “But you don’t have to, really. It’s better if I –“

“ _Jemma_.” He insisted.

Her breath escaped in a shuddery sigh.

“…okay.” She gulped. “But just…just don’t… _ask_.”

“Okay,” he whispered, thumbing the tattered edge of her sleeve off her shoulder. Her bra strap soon followed.

Jemma’s hands came up to clutch at the front of her dress, a light shiver ghosting across her shoulders. As he drew the hidden zipper down, she squeezed her eyes shut, hoping against hope that the light was low enough and the shadows deep enough to hide what was left.

Fitz’s hands were gentle as he laid open the back of her dress, pushing down to the flare of her hips. He choked out a gasp – Her back was a kaleidoscope of colour. Fading yellow bruises layered under a spill of purple, split apart by thin, trickling scabs and fading wheals. Some cuts had been stitched. He ran a trembling finger over the sutures, and felt the shudder of a sob rise in her chest.

Her hands rose to clutch at her face, pressing her palms into her eyes. She gritted her teeth, trying so hard to keep the sounds that skittered up her throat silent. Tears spilled down the bridge of her nose and against her palms.

“ _Oh_.”

Fitz swore quietly, and then, “Oh _Jemma_ , oh no.”

He pressed his lips together, gulping quickly, the muscle in his jaw twitching. He dropped his forehead to her shoulder-blade, and ran his thumb over a strange constellation of bruises – circles, evenly spaced, pressed into the swell of her hip.

She shook her head in tiny, tight movements. Her throat was too swollen with sobs to speak. _Don’t ask, don’t ask, please don’t ask._

Tiny whimpers escaped Jemma’s mouth as she felt Fitz’s forehead nod against her. “Okay. Okay. It’s okay. I promise.”

What he was promising, he wasn’t sure. _Everything_ , he thought, suddenly.

He swore to give her everything he was, everything he had, everything he could to keep her safe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh poor Jemma. 
> 
> Now everyone, go make some tea and grab some cookies and watch some Disney. Or Gilmore Girls.
> 
> I am a horrible, horrible person, and I'm sorry.


	4. Promises and the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson and the team struggle to understand what's happened to Fitzsimmons. Bobbi's guilt and stress are beginning to get to her, while Simmons suffers traumatic nightmares of the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely consider this a trigger-warning for graphic depictions of violence, discussion of torture, and discussions of rape.
> 
> Alternately, also consider this a warning for moments of historical people totally getting how cute Fitzsimmons are.

 

“This is bullshit, Coulson!” Bobbi exclaimed, gesticulating at the scientists packing up equipment, “We need to find them! Fitzsimmons are out there somewhere, and no one’s doing jack shit!”

“Bobbi…” May trailed off, a warning in her tone as she took a step closer to Coulson, arms crossed.

“I know you’re upset Agent Morse, but I promise you, we’re doing everything we can. We’ve got to trust that Fitzsimmons, wherever they are, whatever’s happened to them, they can handle it,” Coulson said as he signed a sheet on a clipboard, handing it back to the low-level agent walking beside him.

As the trio exited the containment tarping, Bobbi waved vehemently back towards Craig Na Dun, “I’m sorry – they can handle it? Have you _met_ Fitzsimmons? They’re lab rats! They’re brilliant scientists, but they’re not field agents!”

Coulson halted suddenly, turning to face her. “Have _you_ met Fitzsimmons? They escaped an inescapable tomb at the bottom of the ocean on a single breath of air. Simmons, with no field clearance, infiltrated Hydra. Fitz, with tremors and hypoxia, stopped the Bus from exploding, created the weapon to stop Creel, and was the lynchpin in countless missions. Simmons played you – just about the best spy in the biz – _twice_ , and snuck the most important object in S.H.I.E.L.D, and the only person who could open it, out from under your nose. Fitz disengaged Fury’s toolbox with a _q-tip_ in the bathroom of a fast-food joint, and shook two of your own tails – also without any field clearance,”

Coulson stepped closer, tapping his chest, “So yeah, _I’ve_ met Fitzsimmons.” He stabbed a finger towards her, “Have you?”

“They could be in danger,” Bobbi said quietly, her hands extended, nearly pleading. She didn’t notice Hunter amble up behind her.

“We’re all in danger, Love.” He tried to be reassuring, patting her upper arm in a heartening gesture, “That’s the job. They signed up for it, same as us,”

Bobbi shrugged him off with a frustrated sound. “You don't understand," she stood for a moment, conflict wrestling across her features.

After a moment, mouth open, about to speak, her face shuttered. Bobbi turned on her heel, and stalked off.

"Bob..." Hunter called after her, jogging forward.

As their figures retreated in the distance, May turned to Coulson. "She's right. You need to call Sif. Asgard owes you a favour. They're the only ones who may have a bead on this."

"...and do _you_ know the area code for the nine realms?"

"Yeah. Jane Foster." May quipped.

"She hates me."

"Call Jane. Get Sif -"

"Save the kids." Coulson ended, hitting dial on his cell. "Just one time, I want things to go smooth. Why do they never go smooth?"

May cocked an eyebrow and said nothing.

* * *

 

Hunter found Bobbi back at the B&B, a rapidly disappearing glass of honey-coloured liquid in hand. She was pacing the common room, staring outside. Her face was an expressionless mask - all but her eyes - red-rimmed, glassy, and brimming with fear and guilt and disappointment.

"Bob," Hunter began, reaching for the bottle in her other hand, "you're beginning to worry me. And that's relatively hard to do, as I am a man without heart, nor feeling,"

"No one buys that dead-inside mercenary crap, Hunter."

"And deflecting never actually deflected a conversation." He raised an inquisitive eyebrow, and the bottle of scotch. "Now where's another glass? Something tells me I'm going to want to be drunk for this."

Bobbi downed the rest of her liquor and pointed to a cabinet. "You're not wrong."

"It's Simmons, isn't it?"

"You missed your calling as an interrogator," Bobbi said flatly, falling heavily into the window seat, drawing her long legs up to her chest. "How'd you know?"

"For a world-class spy, you're amazingly easy to read." He topped up her glass and wrapped an arm around her calves, rubbing her ankle softly. "It's part of what I love about you. Personality full of contradictions. Hair full of secrets."

Bobbi cocked an eyebrow at him, but her mouth pulled almost into a smile.

"They're safe with me bob. Your secrets. Not your hair. Tried to cut my own when I was four. It was the start of my career of making terrible life choices."

Bobbi sputtered a laugh around her tumbler of scotch, finally smiling, before staring into the golden liquid, and growing thoughtful. "It's not my secret. That's the thing. It's Simmons'...and I've betrayed her trust enough for a lifetime. For two. And it's my fault she's got it - that she has to hold all of it, for everyone, in the first place."

Bobbi's voice dropped to a whisper, tremulous with emotion. " _It's all my fault, Lance_. I let it happen to her."

"Let what happen, Bob?"

"Vault D. I should have suspected something when they refused to let me go down to see her - when Calderon started disappearing down there for hours at a time. I thought - because of Weaver - her and Fitzsimmons, they had such a long history - I never thought she'd let it happen - that she'd be so ruthless. But her and Calderon -"

"Didn't you used to have a nickname for him?" Hunter prodded.

"Orpheus. We called him Orpheus. Because he'd get dead men to sing. Confessions from hell. Saying he made music was a...gentler alternative to the truth." Bobbi gulped down a mouthful of liquor and spat, "truth is, he was a fucking butcher. The sadistic bastard."

She turned to him, her drink sloshing over the side of the rim, "they buried reports, did you know that? Did it way before S.H.I.E.L.D. fell - they covered it all up. I mean, I suspected- we all did, but there was never any proof. And he got the job done." She brought a hand to her face and hastily wiped away tears. "We didn't work together often. Usually adjacent operations, but I should have asked more questions. I shouldn't have stood for it. If I had, it could have been dealt with before Vault D. Before he got to Jemma."

 

* * *

 

Fitz, somewhere in his subconscious, could hear the rustle of Jemma’s body twisting in the sheets. The sound filtered down to him on the floor, and like a fish hook, drew him through the depths and fathoms of sleep until the sound of her pained whimpers pulled him from the shallows.

_The shackles on her wrists let go suddenly, and she falls, boneless, to the hard ground, wincing as her wrists and elbows connect. She struggles to gather the strength to slide forward, away from the glancing blow. Another kick to her side, one to her thigh, throws her off balance and she topples, her head hitting with a thud._

_“Hold her.” Weaver’s voice is chilled, emotionless, so much ice. “We’re not done yet.”_

_Jemma forces herself backwards on her elbows and feet, trying in vain to escape Calderon’s hand as he lunges, wrenching her hard to her feet by her hair. She doesn’t bother to bite back a cry._

_“Stand up, traitor,” He breathes, pulling her to her tiptoes and forcing her head painfully back, one hand fisted in her hair. He tugs her against him, sharply, her neck exposed and vulnerable, forcing her to lean against him or lose her footing and gain another beating (and she wasn’t sure how long her ribs could hold, at this rate, or how badly her sutures would rupture, if she did)._

_Weaver approaches, stalking closer, like a jaguar watching prey. Her eyes are glittery and hard in the low light, and Jemma thinks, absently, that she can see the skull underneath the softness of the skin, see the bone and the death, and that maybe - probably, she’ll die down here._

_Calderon’s free hand slithers it’s way across her body, pressing her hips back against his pelvis. He slowly grinds upwards - the hardness of his cock sliding against the cleft of her ass through what’s left of her thin prison garb, the hospital-like scrubs, in tatters from the interrogation session._

_“It makes him hard, you know, when you cry.” Weaver says, her own hand reaching up to play against the long line of Jemma’s throat, her nails sharp and cool against the heat of her skin. “It’s a deviation. A malformation of the amygdala. It’s not his fault - not really.” Weaver’s nails slip lower, tripping down against the curve of her breast, the softness of her stomach, until they clutch at the drawstring of Jemma’s pants. “I try not indulge him in his bad behaviour, but, sometimes, in hard cases - and you, Agent Simmons, are a surprisingly hard case - I let him engage in more...effective forms of coercion.”_

_Calderon chuckles darkly in her ear, grinding up once more as his teeth scrape against her jugular. She feels his cock swell as she trembles, strangling a sob in her throat._

_“Tell us Fitz’s location. Tell us what his plans are for Fury’s Toolbox. Tell us where Coulson is.” Weaver says, her face close to Jemma’s. Her breath stinks of coffee._

_“Tell us, Agent Simmons, and this will all end. Tell us, and you’ll never have to worry about Calderon violating you.”_

_Jemma fights against the tremble that threatens, blinks away the tears, and feeds on her anger, rage burning across her features. “I’ll never give you Fitz.” She gathers the saliva on her tongue and spits in Weaver’s face. “Do your worst,” She declares._

_Weaver is struck dumb momentarily, at the insurrection - but then she rears back, a powerful backhanded slap striking Jemma across the cheek._

_Calderon growls and tosses her body, like so much trash, against the edge of the cot, the sound of her hip colliding reverberating through the cell as he dives for her, his hands ripping at her bottoms, tearing them half-way down her thighs as she screams, clawing her way up onto the mattress, trying to get away._

_“Enough!” Weaver commands, and he backs off like a well-trained dog. “I want her to think about it. To use that prodigious brain hers to think about all the myriad of ways you can, and will, violate her with that cock of yours, as she cries and screams and begs for Fitz.”_

_Jemma hiccoughed and glared from her cot, awkwardly pulling up her pants back over her arse and trying not to look scared. “Give the boy up, Agent Simmons.”_

Fitz sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, watching as Jemma curled in on herself, clutching at her waist, tears streaming from her closed eyes. “Jemma, wake-up, it’s a bad dream.”

He placed a hand softly on her knee, and shook, changing the scene in her dream from one memory to another. One not so far after.

_It wasn’t time yet - they couldn’t be back so soon. But there were footsteps outside the door, a commotion rising - gun shots, the thick sound of bodies hitting the ground, cries of alarm - She’d almost given up hope that anyone would come for her. May wasn’t even at the Playground when they’d locked her up. She was with Gonzales on the Iliad, and no one else who would care would know._

_Suddenly the barrier drops, the orange light-shields zapping as they’re disabled, and a sound breaks from Jemma’s throat, something between a howl and a sob and a laugh as she flings herself from the mattress, regardless of the pain of her injuries, and into his arms._

_“Fitz! Oh Fitz! I can’t believe it’s you!” Jemma sobs, clinging to him. “But you can’t - you have to leave, Weaver and Calderon and Gonzales, they’re looking for you! They’ll be expecting this! We need to move quickly, before they send reinforcements - we need to get you back to the coast, get reinforcements of our own,”_

_Fitz squeezes her tight, drawing her to her feet as he says, “But Simmons,”_

_There’s something different about his voice - something muddling his tongue. Probably emotion, or fear. The whole thing was death-defying, crazy, three agents taking on a full base - “What am I thinking! It’s Deathlok, isn’t it? You located Mike Peterson! Of course - his energy cells were being shipped to San Francisco -”_

_There was something pulling at the back of her mind as Fitz wrapped his arm around her, steadying her. Something felt off. The angle of his arm, how it rested against her side - the fit of the tac-vest…._

_No, no. She shook her head as he helped her limp towards the stairs. It was just that she couldn’t believe he was here. That he had come for her. Her mind wouldn’t let her believe it, she thought, her eyes fixed on his profile as he hauled her up towards the stairs. Without thinking about the consequences, she reached up a trembling hand - she just needed to touch him. To know it was him, to feel the sweep of his jaw under her fingers one more time._

_She jolts and stumbles back when an electric shock shoots through the pad of her finger. There’s a strange blur against the line of his neck and jaw, like unresponsive pixels, and in horror, she claws at it, her nails catching at the edge of the holo-mask._

_Calderon looks back at her, a smug grin on his face. “Gotta hand it to Weaver. I didn’t think you’d cave so quickly. That, and I was really looking forward to getting some one-on-one time with that sweet ass of yours,”_

_He threw her against the wall and pressed his mouth against hers. His tongue is insistent at her lips as she cringes and clenches, trying to seal herself off,pushing hard against him, wrenching free of his grasp._

_She limps desperately towards her cell while he cackled behind her. “Ah well, I’m sure Weaver’s cooking up something special for you anyways. Me? I’m just itchin’ to get to San Fran, find me a little Scottish Engineer to cut up.”_

Suddenly, Jemma struggled free of the sheets, arms outstretched, chest colliding with Fitz’s, gasping and terrified.

He grappled her shoulders and held her close, murmuring soothing sounds against her hair as her breathing calmed and the jack-hammering in her chest eased. She pulled back, her hands going up to his face, brushing against his hair-line, the curve of his cheekbone, the sweep of his jaw. Sighing in relief, Jemma let her head fall forward, and pressed a soft, barely-there kiss against his clavicle.

“Shhh, shhh.” He croons, petting her hair down, his heart flip-flopping in his chest as he felt her stiff limbs ease and sink into him, her lips soft against the top of his chest. “It’s okay, Jem. I’m here. We’re together. We’re safe Everything will be okay,”

“Erhrrm,” a throat cleared pointedly from the doorway. Both Jemma and Fitz turned, breaking apart swiftly.

Mrs. Fitzgibbons stared back at them, her cheeks reddening. “Well you slept clear through the day, nigh on supper, t’is. I came to wake ye, but I see you didn’t need my help on that account.” She turned her gaze to Jemma, and smiled kindly. “Your brother’s right lass. You’re safe now. The Laird Himself will get things sorted, and you’ll be on your merry way soon enough.”

Mrs. Fitzgibbons patted at a stack of clothing in her hand. “You’re both to see him. But before, you’ll need to be fit for his company - in proper attire. I dug through my late son’s things for ye, Master Fitz. Rupert’s just in the corridor, he’ll take you to where you can change. As for you Mistress Jemma, I’m here to help see to your toilette,”

“Oh,” Jemma began, wincing as she slid from the bed.

“Aye,” Mrs. Fitzgibbon rushed forward to take Fitz’s place at Jemma’s side, easing her from the bed. Simultaneously, she pushed Fitz toward Rupert, who peeked his wide, blushing face around the door frame.

“I never thought I’d say it,” Jemma began, watching Fitz’s slip out into the corridor, “But a corset my actually be a relief,” Mrs. Fitzgibbon helped her slip off her sundress. The older woman hissed softly as she took in the bruises seeping out the bottom of Jemma’s bandaged torso.

“Lass…” the housekeeper implored, tilting her head sympathetically. “I know you’re poor mother’s gone to the beyond, but might you...might you be...escaping your father?”

Jemma stepped quickly out of her skirts, her mouth falling open in surprise and confusion.

“I’ve had my fair share of brutal men. Fathers, Husbands, Lairds. I dare say all women have. Men that think just because you belong to them they’ve the right to beat you like a wayward dog.” Mrs. Fitzgibbon waddled forward and placed a warm hand on Jemma’s cheek. “Just because the law allows it doesn’t mean it’s right. I won’t tell. You can be sure.”

 

* * *

 

*Fitz kept glancing back over his shoulder as he was led down the corridor to another open room.

“Mistress Jemma’s in good hands,” Rupert said, clapping Fitz powerfully on the back. “But I don’t blame you for your worry. T’is not any situation for a woman to be in. But she handled herself well, aye?”

Rupert closed the door behind them as he motioned Fitz on, tilting his head in curiosity as he caught the sound of the zipper of Fitz’s jeans descending.

“What kind of closure is that?”

“It’s...from France.” Fitz supplied, stripping off his shirt.

Understanding dawn on Rupert’s face, along with a little jealousy. “Ahh.” He nodded, twisting his moustache. “France. Right. I, uh, I think I heard about that.” He added, handing Fitz his lended great kilt. He eyed Fitz’ boxer briefs just as incredulously. “Aye...Ahh...D’ye stock much of your wardrobe from France, Master Fitz?”

Fitz set the kilt aside, glancing down as he stuck his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers, quickly shucking them with a blush. “Family ties. My mum liked me to be smartly dressed.”

“I’ve been considering a pair of trews myself,” Rupert noted, affecting a more refined tone as he handed Fitz a tunic. It was simply cut, but from a heavy, soft material, worn smooth with age.

Fitz pulled it over his head, casting quick, hidden glances at Rupert to see how he’d put himself together - the roll of his sleeves, the number of buttons done up on his vest, the way he’d folded his kilt over his shoulder.

When Fitz finally came to the kilt, he held it up and stared at it. A sheepish flush rose against the back of his neck and heated his face as his confusion grew. He’d known how to put on a kilt, he’d thought. But this? “Erm…”

“Auch, aye! It’s old fashioned, I know! T’is why I found the room with some floor space. You’ll have to lay it out, lie upon it, fold the edges down and string the belt through, then wind the remainder up against the belt, loop it through, and fasten the sash over your shoulder - I’ll help ye lad,”

 

* * *

 

Jemma sucked in a breath as Mrs. Fitzgibbon reefed on the corset-laces. “Are ye sure you want it this tight with your injuries, Mistress?”

Jemma nodded twisting experimentally. “Yes, this should do nicely to support the ribs.”

Mrs. Fitzgibbon puttered about her, tying up the panniers that would expand her skirts and further define her waist as Jemma reached for her petticoats. “Master Fitz - he’s a handsome lad, isn’t he?”

“Beg pardon?” Jemma asked, slightly taken aback as she shimmied into her skirts.

“Oh! Not for me, Mistress! Auch, no!” Mrs. Fitzgibbon blushed deeply pink, “I’m far too old, and such a fine slim lad as that - auch no! You flatter me!” She giggled, sliding the dark green velvet bodice down over Jemma’s torso. Her face, when it appeared, her hair askew as it popped through the neck opening, was quizzical, her eyebrow raised.

“I have a granddaughter, you understand,” The older woman carried on, bustling about for the cream coloured fichu that belonged down the front of Jemma’s dress, “Laoghaire. She was always intended for young Jaime, before he passed.” Mrs. Fitzfibbon sighed. “But it does little good to dwell on what’s past. But I thought, should he perchance be inclined to take a wife, such a man as he - clearly good hearted, a kind man, a man of integrity, from his treatment of you alone, he might be a good fit for her. And such a slim, handsome, refined gentleman such as Master Fitzsimmons, he might catch her eye. You know how these things go,”

“Indeed,” Jemma said, slightly flustered, “I do.”

 

* * *

 

“So tell me, Master Fitz,” Rupert said with a studied nonchalance as he led his charge toward the Laird’s quarters, “Your sister - fine woman that she is - might she be promised?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I know. I'm a horrible, horrible person to Jemma. I tried to lighten the mood a little at the end there, though! Adorable Rupert is adorable. And also looking for ladies.
> 
> Me? I just look for comments. (Badum-cha! I'll be here all week. Tip your waitresses.)


	5. Cages and Compien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma places herself in a difficult position when Fitzsimmons meet with the Laird of Castle Leoch, Colum MacKenzie, who is suspicious of their story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't forgotten about this story! Sorry for such a long hiatus. I hope you enjoy the chapter, and where things are headed!

* * *

 

Jemma twisted bodily, pulling the heavy door closed with a sound tug, the thick thud of dropping books startling her into a spin.

“ _Oh_ ,” Jemma breathed, gulping as her eyes raked over Fitz’s defined calves and the momentary glimpse of his slim, but well-formed, thighs as he clumsily replaced a large leather-bound catalogue book back in its place above a tall armoire.

“Jemma?” He steadied himself on top of the wooden chair he stood on, staring at her, the sides of his neck and the tips of his ears reddening as his mouth worked, opening and closing without sound. “-i I was looking for a date - looked like an inventory of sorts,” He made a gesture towards the book, but lost his balance, and toppled forward, tripping over his feet a few steps, righting himself, suddenly, as he stood in front of her.

“... _Hi_. Hello. You look -” He gestured, his eyes falling on the pushed up, pillowed curve of her bosom against the edge of the velvet green bodice.With a quick wrench of his gaze, his blushing face found hers. “erm, well-”

“- you too.” Jemma agreed, hastily, with a wave at his kilt, letting her fingers sporadically flit upwards to his torso, his surprisingly broad shoulders - _when had that happened?_ \- well-framed by the cut and pull of the waistcoat he wore. “-the kilt. Quite, erm, dashing.” Her face felt aflame. When the creak of the door sounded behind her, she whirled around, grateful for the distraction.

“Good evening. I am Colum ban Campbell MacKenzie, chieftain of the clan Mackenzie, and Laird of Castle Leoch.” Hobbling into the room was a small man with a barrel chest and fine doublet, a shrewd look upon his face. “And, you, I take it, are the siblings Fitzsimmons.”

Jemma nodded, quickly flicking down to the bowed, twisted legs, diagnosing. He should have stood nearly six feet, from the breadth of his shoulders and the length of his torso, but instead, he barely reached her shoulder, and she was not a tall woman. _Toulouse-Lautrec syndrome_.

“Thank you for seeing us, Laird MacKenzie -” Fitz began. Colum held up his hand decisively, penning Fitz’s words in his mouth.

“I am interested to ken how my men stumbled upon you in the woods, and how you came to be here.”

Jemma stepped forward beside Fitz, wringing her hands behind her back, “As I’m sure your men have told you -”

“- I’m not interested in their telling, my dear, I’m interested in yours. If you might relay the events as truly as they occurred, I would be grateful to listen. I’m sure you understand, with the way current circumstances are unfolding,” the Laird Mackenzie interrupted.

Fitz nodded. “British incursions in the region, I expect, haven’t been pleasant.”

“Aye,” the Mackenzie’s mouth twisted wryly, “incursions. The word makes it sound almost _civil_ , Master Fitzsimmons.” He eyed the slim-figured, well-made, soft-looking young man before him, and his lips quirked further, his brows drawing low, a mask of suspicion.

Jemma broke in, eager to curry favour. The Laird Mackenzie’s manner was unnervingly familiar, reminding her in no small part, of Director Coulson. “My, um, my brother and I, you see, were heading to Inverness to seek passage on a merchant vessel -”

“- a friend of our Uncle’s captains a ship headed toward Compien -” Fitz supplied.

“-where the rest of our living family is. We were making our way through the forest when we were set upon -”

“-by highwaymen - they dragged her away, stripped her of her clothes, stole all of our things, including our carriage -”

Jemma put a hand on Fitz’s arm to still his words, and jumped in, “If we could only beg a boon, Laird Mackenzie - It's only that, the ship will be in port shortly, and if we could only be granted passage to Inverness…”

Colum Mackenzie leaned back in his chair, resting a hand across the broad oak desk. He tapped his nail against the wood, said nothing, and stared, narrowing his eyes as he looked back and forth between the two of them.

He turned to Jemma. Leaning forward, resting his elbows on the desk, he said, pointedly, “My men claim to have heard you speak with the accent of an English lady.”

Jemma’s eyes widened, and she swallowed, trying to minimize the shock that appeared on her face - someone must have overheard her speaking to Ward - _Black Jack Ward_ , she reminded herself.

“I am not surprised,” Jemma declared, her feigned glaswegian accent strong. “I was being interrogated at knife-point by a British Redcoat. He was _already_ threatening rape. Imagine if I’d have spoken in my own accent, instead of the accent of his countrywoman.”

Colum gestured between the two of them. “Perhaps you are a Scot. And Perhaps you are an Englishwoman, putting on an accent to curry favour with your _current_ captors. Perhaps you are siblings, heading to Compien. Or maybe lovers, on the run. I’ve not a care to know which. But perhaps, just perhaps, you are as Dougal suspects - an English spy, in the guise of a helpless woman, and perhaps you,” He jabbed a finger in Fitz’s direction, “Are an English sympathizer, or maybe you just sympathize with one particular Englishwoman, as Dougal also cared to note. What matters to me, however, is the safety of my clan, and my people from... _incursions,_ as you so deftly put, Master Fitzsimmons, from the _bastard_ English.”

Fitz started forward, but Jemma clenched her fist, white-knuckled, around his wrist.

“If, in the time between now and the wool market in Inverness, a fortnight hence, you can prove your innocence, and I can find no threat of danger from you, I shall grant passage. So, if you wish to tell me a truer tale, now would be the time for it,”

“That _is_ -!”

“Fitz.” Jemma said quietly, moving her hand from his wrist to his hand, softly brushing his knuckles, before dropping her hands in front of her.

Her mind whirred a mile a minute as she stepped forward, stalling for time, staring at the ground, as if in shame. Her synapses fired, recalling the suppositions of Mrs. Fitzgibbons a mere hour earlier, and realized that just as with Hydra, selective truths were the only thing between them and the noose...and if there was one thing she was not risking, that she would never risk, it would be Fitz’s life. Not if she could help it.

“My name is Jemma Simmons,” She began, her regular English accent clear as a bell.

“-Jemma!” Fitz cried, whipping to face her, eyes wild at the edges, “ _What are_ _you_ -” he hissed.

“Fitz - quiet. I know what I’m doing. Trust me,” Her voice was clipped and short, but her gaze was soft, pleading, asking - _Trust me. Just trust me._

Imperceptibly, he nodded.

“This is Leopold Fitz. And you’re right. I am English, and a runaway. We did lie, but, and I do hope you will reserve your judgement until I am finished explaining, but it is not what you think.” Jemma flicked her eyes to the ceiling of the lavishly drawn room, and blinked a few times, clearing the unwanted tears that sprang to her eyes.

Three times in the space of a day, and she would be showing her shame, explaining what had happened to her (or near enough to it) to three different people. The only way to protect them was to do the last thing she ever wanted to do, and expose herself. Expose what had happened to her. It would be impossible to deny it, after this. Impossible to pretend it hadn’t happened, that it was all some bad dream, something that had happened to someone else, some other Jemma, just inhabiting her body for a time.

But it was their lives at stake. Fitz’s life at stake. Regardless of what it cost her personally, to put a name and words to it, it was worth that.

“You may call Mrs. Fitzgibbons to corroborate my account, if you wish, as she guessed the right of it earlier, assisting me with my toilette. My...my father, was a… well, he was brutal man.”

She gulped, but drove on. “He was accustomed to taking out his ill-humours upon me, with whatever he might chance upon. A-a stick, a _knife_ -” Her voice quavered, and she shut her eyes, trying desperately to block out the images of Calderon stripping the tattered scrubs from her body, so carefully, only to bunch his hands into fists, sending them flying, one after the other, into her torso.

“... _Jemma_ ,” Fitz intoned, his voice wet with sympathy.

“No, no Fitz, it’s fine.” Jemma said with a cough, clearing her throat. “He preferred his own hands,” She said, her voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers trembled, and she shook them, trying not to let the fibbed retelling of her torture evolve, trying not to let it spiral like a coin into the pit of her mind, where it lived, every day, every moment, just one wrong-footed thought away.

“Fitz -” She started again suddenly, barreling forward, “He was the stable boy on the estate, and well, he was always kind to me, and seeing an opportunity, I seized what little I could and convinced him to make a run for it, where my father would never find me.”

Jemma took a deep breath when her voice began to turn wet, her throat thick. “I was sure the next time, he would kill me.” She squeaked out, “ _Or worse_.”

Fitz’s hands stroked tenderly over her forearms, his mouth pursing as he struggled with the emotion he felt, his gaze soft where it fell upon her. He could see, from the blankness that dimmed her usually bright eyes, and the way the corners of her mouth trembled in the tight press of her lips, that she was only just stemming back the tide, that, though the lie was clear, the truth behind it was startling, and more than she could bear, and all he wanted to do was gather her up, and press her close, and never, ever let her go. It was too much, it hurt too much, to see her in such pain.

Fitz carried on for her, seizing the thread of the lie, and looping it back around. “-She promised me money for my protection - the horses, the carriage. I could make a go of it, if I would get her to port, and see her off to Compien. We’re of an age, so siblings seemed logical, and less questionable than a lady travelling alone with a manservant. You have to understand -”

 

Colum Mackenzie nodded, his face ashen and grave. “Dire circumstances. Indeed.” He fell silent, but continued to nod.

Jemma hastily reached up, frowning, to brush away a few tears, and to sniff.

“Well…” He sighed heavily. “I am sorry to hear it now. I will need to speak to Mrs. Fitzgibbon, you understand, but barring any more suspicions, I will do what I can to see you to your ship, Mistress Simmons.” He looked solemnly between the two. “Though I do suggest you retain your sibling tale, and perhaps, attempt to behave in a more familial manner.” His eyes dropped pointedly to their clasped hands. “Regardless of the nature of things between you.”

As if they had touched their fingers to a fire, both Jemma and Fitz jumped away, clutching their hands.

“I shall expect you in the hall for the meal. You may go,” the Mackenzie declared.

Outside, Jemma rushed hurriedly along the flagstones, desperate for fresh air, instead of the acrid, stale smelling atmosphere of the castle. It felt like it was strangling her.

“Jemma,” Fitz called, trotting close behind her, shades of pain in his tone. “I never -”

She pushed heavily against the rampart door, breathing deeply against the gust of wind that greeted her. The cold was bracing, centering, just what she needed to bring her back to the here and now. She pressed her palm hard into the ridge of her brow, and begged, “Don’t, Fitz. You know now. Don’t ask. _Please_.”

* * *

 

Fitz in a kilt, IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The manip is all Memorizingthedigitsofpi, who writes phenomenal fics you should check out, and who's current work, A June Wedding, has me GLUED to her AO3!


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